Sherwood

Robin Loxley came back to Sherwood on a Thursday-the same Thursday that I knelt on a polished concrete floor and kissed the hand-stitched toebox of Rafe de Lacy's shoe.

I suppose it wouldn't have made a difference if I'd known she was back. It had been five years, after all, and she'd been the one to leave Sherwood in the first place. And I was many, many things-young, submissive, obsessive-but the one thing I'd never been, not even as a smitten teenage girl, was foolish. And I had no intere...